


An Uncomfortable Subway Ride

by BlackDog9314



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Paris - Freeform, Subways, Thievery, adorableness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDog9314/pseuds/BlackDog9314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is visiting Sam and Jess in Paris and has an interesting encounter on the metro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Uncomfortable Subway Ride

Dean held the wrinkled map in front of him with one hand while the other encircled one of the metal poles that bisected the packed subway car.

Directly in front of him stood a couple with a rosy-cheeked little girl held between them, a kitten-eared hat on her small head and her blue eyes wide with the silent observation of her surroundings seemingly unique to Parisian children. Beside them were two young teenage girls chattering rapidly in French and casting Dean furtive glances every few seconds, as though considering talking to him. Dean only caught the words 'beau' and 'tres', still learning the language. He could have a basic conversation with someone, ask for directions and how much something was, but most of the nuances of meaning were at this point still obscure to him.

Dean took his hand off the pole momentarily to adjust his coat, the sleeves riding up. At that moment the metro shuddered abruptly to a halt at Place de Clichy, and Dean wobbled to the side and then fell back into a warm, solid form. He blushed and turned around, only to find himself face-to-face with a handsome guy who looked to be around his age, with dark hair and eyes bluer than the kitten-eared child's.

Blushing even harder as the dude impassively stared at him, Dean stammered, “ _Ah...je suis desole—_ “

“ _Ugh, Américain, votre accent est terrible. Combien de temps êtes-vous ici? Un jour?_ ”

“Hey— _ce...était un—un a-accident_ , I didn't...I...oh, come on, a day?! I—” Dean sputtered angrily, sliding back into English in his resentment. But before he could say anything more, to his surprise the guy burst out laughing, a smile spreading across his face as he shook his head and said to Dean, “I'm just messing with you, man. Sorry. Sometimes its fun to pretend to be a native.”

He had no accent, an American as well. Dean scowled at him, unwilling to forgive him so easily.

“Your accent isn't really that bad, I was just giving you a hard time.”

Dean didn't answer, turning away and pulling out his phone to check his messages and distract himself. He was aware he was taking the whole incident a little too much to heart, but was embarrassed and annoyed for reasons he couldn't quite define.

The subway began to move again, and Dean did his best to lose himself in checking his phone, trying not to notice the guy still looking at him.

Then, “What stop you getting off at?”

Dean huffed and said nothing.

“I'm getting off at Charles de Gaulle.”

Dean had to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the words, somehow not surprised that they were getting off at the same stop.

“Are you visiting for pleasure or business?” the guy's voice was a deep one, Dean noticed. But he was determined not to answer. What did he want him to say, anyway?

“I live here,” the man supplied, as if Dean had asked. “This is year two. I wait tables at a restaurant near the Arc de Triomphe on weekends.”

“Good for you!” Dean snapped, finally, looking up grumpily, “And for your information, I'm visiting my brother and his wife, and I _don't_ want to talk to you.” His sentence ended in a half-whispered hiss.

After that the man asked no more questions, and Dean was relieved and almost disappointed at the same time.

The rest of the metro ride passed in relative silence as it made the rounds past Villiers, Monceau, Courcelles, and Ternes. When it stopped at Charles de Gaulle Dean re-wrapped his scarf around his neck and put the map in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt and his phone in the side pocket of his coat before filing out of the subway car with the others. Someone brushed up against him uncomfortably, but he didn't think much of it, and it wasn't until he absently reached for his phone as he was about to ascend the stairs up to the street that he noticed it was gone.

Cursing, Dean turned around and began to scan the station floor frantically for it, also looking for suspicious-looking people. Pick-pocketing was fairly commonplace on the metro depending on the location of the stop, and Dean prayed he had just dropped it.

He was surprised to see the dark-haired man who had pretended to be mad at him tussling with someone not far beyond the outer doors of the still-stopped subway car, struggling to take something from his hand.

Dean looked a little closer and felt his stomach drop in realization and horror as he saw that it was _his phone_ the dark-haired man was trying to get back, and he quickly made his way over to the men to try and get it himself. But by the time he reached the two of them Dean saw that his ally had wrestled the phone from the thief's hand, and the other man was scrabbling to get away, shaking his wrist where it was likely twisted or sprained.

His mouth hanging open, Dean watched the pick-pocket leave, standing beside the blue-eyed man in the throng of people in the station. He saw Dean and held his phone out, smiling hesitantly.

“My wallet was stolen the first day I was in Paris. It sucks. I...I really am sorry about earlier, by the way. I never quite _did_ get how to be funny without being mean. That's what happens when you're one of five boys.”

When Dean didn't immediately respond, so surprised was he, still, the man looked a little sad and slipped the phone into Dean's front pocket and turned to leave, buttoning the top button of his thick yellow sweater in preparation to brave the cold only a flight of stairs away.

“Wait! Thank you—I—uh, what's your name?” Dean called out after him when he regained the ability to speak.

The guy turned around, looking surprised.

“I'm Castiel,” he said, smiling faintly.

Dean walked towards him, extending a hand, “I'm Dean. I'm here for a month longer, been here a week.”

“Dean. That's a good name. Do you want to get some coffee?”

God, but he was attractive, his lips red from the cold and his hair mussed from the altercation outside the subway.

“Uh, sure. If you want. You don't have to get me coffee for what happened earlier,” Dean half-mumbled.

“That's not why I want to,” Castiel said quickly, picking at a loose thread in his sweater and shuffling his feet.

“...Okay,” Dean said with a tentative smile.

With that, Castiel casually linked his arm through Dean's and they walked up the dirty concrete stairs, surfacing from the enclosed darkness into the cold, white sunlight of a December day in France.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may add more onto this. Not sure yet. Tell me if you would like more!


End file.
